Dementor Humour?
by Drauchenfyre
Summary: A cold and lonely night in Azkaban...


**Dementor Humour**

A Harry Potter Fanfiction

by Drauchenfyre

Characters: Auror Dawlish, Warden Timmons, Dementors, Rodolphus LeStrange

SUMMARY: A cold and lonely night in Azkaban...

***STORY***

Auror John Dawlish sighed. It was Christmas Eve 1999, less than two years after the final defeat of Voldemort, and once again he had pulled the graveyard shift at Azkaban Prison. He had been reassigned here in the wake of the fall of the Death Eaters, Minister Shacklebolt citing his bungling ineptitude as an Auror. The new Head Auror, Gawain Robards, had made some reference to some 'coppers' from Keystone. John didn't understand it, but then, Gawain had always been confusing him with his odd Muggle references. He sighed again and continued his rounds.

"Happy Christmas, John."

Dawlish looked up, startled. He didn't have his wand on the cell block- too easy for an inmate to take it from him in an escape attempt- but fortunately this person was a friendly.

"Warden Timmons, sir?"

The older man smiled wryly at his subordinate. Having been Warden of Azkaban for twenty-two years- since the first Blood War, in fact- Jason Timmons had spent more time in this prison than most of the inmates. Of course, for the man who 'supervised' the Dementors- no one could truly be said to control them- his physical description was creepily apropos- gaunt, pale skin, dark eyes, wispy white hair, deep mournful voice.

"I said, Happy Christmas, John. It's just past midnight."

"Oh. Happy Christmas, sir."

"Mind if I join you on your rounds? It will help alleviate the boredom of the graveyard shift."

"O-of course, sir."

The two men continued down the row of cells in Cell Block D- Azkaban's most infamous prisoners, a roster which consisted almost entirely of Death Eaters captured at the Battle of Hogwarts.

Glancing into each cell, Dawlish stopped at one marked, "LeStrange, R. J.". This would be Rodolphus Joshua LeStrange, captured shortly after his feared, maniacal wife died at the hands of a rather dumpy housewife. His brother Rabastan was one who had managed to escape, only to have a run-in with Harry and Hermione Potter on their honeymoon. Now _that _was embarassing. Rabastan had been executed last December, right around Christmas in fact. Dawlish looked in the cell to see how Rodolphus was dealing with the anniversary of his brother's execution by Death Veil.

Not well, apparently. He was hanging from a beam by his neck, using the obligatory torn-bedsheet noose.

"Sir!" Dawlish cried, opening the cell.

Dawlish rushed in, the Warden standing at the door, ready to close it if LeStrange was faking it. Dawlish was old enough to know not to go rushing into things, yet did it anyway- one of the reasons he constantly had trouble in the Auror Department. Dawlish checked LeStrange's radial and jugular pulse. Finding neither, he turned to the Warden and nodded grimly.

Timmons groaned, "Not again!"

Dawlish, confused, said, "What's wrong, sir? He's just a murdering Death Eater."

Timmons stared blankly at Dawlish, right eyebrow raised, before replying, "Never been here for a dead inmate before, then?"

Dawlish, now even more confused, shook his head.

"Then you don't know about the Dementors' tradition every time an inmate dies?"

Dawlish was about to ask a question when he heard a rhythmic thumping. Stepping into the hall with the Warden, he saw the most bizarre sight of his life:

Line-Dancing Dementors.

Line-Dancing, _singing _Dementors.

In raspy, yet on-key and surprisingly-pleasant voices, the three Dementors were singing a song that John Dawlish was fairly sure he'd heard somewhere before:

_Bump-bump-bump,_

_Another one bites the dust!_

_Bada-bump-bump-bump,_

_Another one bites the dust!_

_And another one gone, and another one gone, _

_Another one bites the dust!_

_Hey! They're gonna get you too,_

_Another one bites the dust!_

END

A/N: Don't own the song anymore than I own Harry Potter. The credit for that goes to the brilliant Freddy Mercury.


End file.
